If You Die in Your Dreams
by Chasing Liquor
Summary: Every day in Stamford is the same, and it's slowly sucking the life out of Jim. Maybe his dreams never left Scranton. When Michael visits with news, Jim begins to wonder. JimPam, Michael
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not mine... not mine.

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They Say If You Die In Your Dreams...

To call Stamford "dull" would be to call Dwight "eccentric." It was a lifeless incarnation of Scranton. Everyone was just as unproductive and unhappy, but there was little levity and even less conflict. It wasn't that people got along, it was that people didn't give themselves the opportunity to _not_ get along. The days were filled with an eerie, deafening silence.

Every night, Jim went home and ate the same food, stewing for the evening in a life that wasn't living before retiring to bed, where he'd lay awake half the night wondering just when it was he'd ceded his hope to that starless abyss above.

On weekends, he'd go to the bar down the block, fully intending to find some sweet young thing with vapid eyes and translucent intentions, but it never got past a single drink, and some part of him knew it never would. Instead, he'd sit there until last call, then walk home alone and climb into bed, a cold, rigid, uncomfortable bed with so much room to spare.

It never changed.

Maybe that was why – God help him – Jim was excited the day Michael stopped in. His former boss had been on a business trip to New York and insisted he stop by since Stamford was only "like 10 miles from there." Jim had never expected to miss that kind of idiotic exaggeration as much as he'd come to in the two months since his departure from Scranton, but life's funny that way.

Michael insisted on taking him out to dinner and, when they arrived at Applbee's, it became immediately clear that the evening ahead of them would be, if nothing else, interesting.

The hostess smiled politely.

"Two?"

Michael looked past Jim dramatically to a third party that wasn't there.

"Don't forget my friend The Hollow Man over there."

She stared blankly and his grin faltered.

"It's a movie... with... Kevin Bacon, he's... invisible... yeah, two."

For the first of many times that night, Jim found himself smiling at his elder's antics. It felt like some part of his essence had been gravely misaligned and, somehow, with each obnoxious turn of phrase, Michael Scott was making things just a little bit better.

They chatted about life and work, and even though Jim knew his old boss' constant use of the phrase "everybody got a big kick out of it" couldn't have been anything but a gross misinterpretation of his former colleagues' reactions to Michael's hijinks, warmth spread through the young man's chest and reached places he'd thought dead of late.

Six beers into their chat, the inevitable query arrived...

"Hey, have you talked to Pam at all?"

Jim looked away a moment, taking a swig of his beer.

"Yeah, a few times, through... you know, e-mail."

"I'll tell ya, she's been an absolute _bitch_ around the office."

Jim's expression darkened and Michael, cold stare or not, knew he'd misspoken.

"And by _bitch_, I mean... um, bitchhhh_in_', not bitch, because that would just be an outrageous thing to say about such a wonderful, uh... creation... of the Lord."

That drew a ghost of a smile and a shake of the head from his friend, who took another long drink before staring down at his empty plate. Michael frowned.

"She asks about you sometimes."

Jim looked up.

"Yeah? What do you tell her?"

"I tell her, 'Pam, you had your chance. Now he's up in Connecticut conquering cocktail waitresses two at a time and there's nothing you can do about it!'"

Jim stared at him for several seconds in muted disbelief.

"Words, I... don't have words."

"I know, you can thank me later."

The salesman turned his head away, something flashing in his calm eyes.

"I don't think that'll be necessary."

To Jim's surprise, Michael took their talk in a different direction in the minutes that followed. Apparently, he and Carole were rather serious about one another, and while Jim might have dismissed it as his former boss' typical pomposity or delusion in another time or place, he believed him that night.

There was something in Michael's voice that he hadn't had much occasion to hear.

"Things are really – they're really – they're good."

"I'm glad."

Michael's face softened in that rare, solemn way that always redeemed him after some of his more thoughtless moments. Jim leaned in and listened.

"I thought maybe I wasn't supposed to get what I want."

Jim's instinct was to reply dryly, mockingly, but instead, his eyes were gentle when he spoke, remembering Michael's expression on "Take Your Daughter to Work Day."

"A family?"

"I could be a good dad."

"And husband," Jim supplied kindly.

"Oh, no, I'm gonna be a terrible husband," Michael responded nonchalantly. "But those kids love me."

"You're really good with kids."

"Well, it's not rocket surgery – "

"– Rocket science – "

"All they want is for someone to listen to what they're saying and act like it matters, even if you couldn't care less."

There was something enchanting about a man who lived with his words.

"Her kids are great. I love them. I really do. And she's great. I like being seen in public with her."

"Wow, that's... a weird thing to say, but..." Jim trailed off, reaching for his beer.

"I'm gonna ask her to marry me."

Jim nearly choked.

"Marry you?"

"Yeah."

"As in... holy matrimony?"

Michael's forehead creased.

"If that's college talk for marriage, theeeen yes."

Jim leaned back in his chair.

"That's... heavy," he said, pausing. "And you're sure you want to do this?"

"Hey, Jimbo, don't get me wrong, I loved the old days when we were out scoring chicks like Scranton was a brothel – "

" – Yeah, that never happened – "

" – But I wanna settle down. I wanna be part of something. I love her, I really love her, and I love her kids."

It was clear that Michael meant it, and the idea that such a genuine sentiment could emerge from his mouth somehow gave Jim hope. He nodded encouragingly and they just sat there in amicable silence for a time.

"... and she does this thing with her tongue when I'm on my back – "

Jim cleared his throat. "Too much."

Michael held up his hands in immediate surrender.

"Too much, yeah, too much," he muttered with chagrin.

The rest of the evening was spent discussing lighter topics and it surprised Jim just how much Michael seemed to know about sports these days... _too much_, in fact. It became clear that he'd done heavy research specifically for this conversation after he noted Russian basketball player Andrei Kirilenko's blocks per 48 minutes in 2004.

Michael slowed down drinking around nine o'clock and when the restaurant closed at eleven, he felt sober enough to drive, which was a good thing, given that Jim was inebriated beyond recognition.

On the drive back, Michael surprised him again.

"So, can I ask you something?"

Jim rolled his head lazily to his left to look at him.

"How would you like to be the Best Man at my wedding?"

"Did you propose while I was in the bathroom? Because there's more romantic ways to go about that."

"She's going to say 'yes.' It's a formality, really, like..."

"Dating?" Jim offered helpfully.

"Jim, yes or no? Because Dwight's going to be dying to do it."

"Okay, ask Dwight."

"No!" Michael bristled. "I don't want to ask Dwight."

"Then why did you say that?"

"It was reverse psychology, but you're too drunk to – you know what, just say 'yes.'"

Jim tried to picture the wedding in his head, picture himself standing next to Michael, but the image didn't come. All he could see was a woman in white, her face obscured. When she finally turned to look at him, it was Pam, bathed in that pure white light that always followed her smile.

The salesman's eyes shot open.

He couldn't have explained what possessed him, but he spoke very decisively.

"Yes."

Michael spent the rest of the car ride speaking stream-of-conscious style about what he wanted his Bachelor Party to be. Jim tuned in and out, but he was fairly certain that Andrew Dice Clay wouldn't be available and even more certain that he'd "forget" to invite Todd Packer.

When Michael dropped him off, Jim couldn't help the smile that lingered as he trudged up the stairs to his apartment and went inside. It had been a good night. For once, it felt like he was coming home from a place he wanted to be.

The smile stayed with him when he drank a tall glass of water. His lips were still curved, even when they were stained with toothpaste. When he washed his face, his mouth could still recall happiness.

But a few minutes later, Jim climbed into bed, staring up at his dark ceiling and through to the sky beyond it, and when he squinted just right, he could still see that vile nigritude that swallowed the lives of stars.

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A/N: I do plan on continuing this if anyone cares to read it, and I promise that if I do, this story is going to be focused mostly on Jim and Pam... w/ some further secondary spotlight on the bizarre Jim/Michael friendship (one of my favorite parts of the show). This here is just setup, especially to establish the repair Jim's poor psyche needs.

Anyone, let me know what you think – good, bad, continue, not continue?


	2. Chapter 2

It was difficult to believe that only five months had passed since he left Scranton. This was but the twentieth Monday he'd ever spent here, yet it felt like years had passed and, if he was honest with himself, it scared him to imagine what his life would be like in a half-decade Would he be like Roger? Would he be like Eric? Or maybe he wouldn't _be_ at all. Some nights, that held its appeal.

He made eight sales that day, but he couldn't remember any of the customers' names when Jake asked, and it was just as well because neither of them cared who the poor saps were. It wasn't lost on Jim's colleagues the way his eyes grew dimmer as the hours passed, but as the light left his optics, his productivity swelled, so no one said a thing, content instead to ride the horse until its limbs turned to glue.

When five o'clock came, everyone dispersed, carried their separate ways by depleted hearts and the October winds and a fierce lack of something human stitched into their bones. Jim pulled his coat tight around him and ambled down the sidewalk, searching for a purpose to steady his stride. Every now and again, he glanced at the street, wondering if the city had always been this empty.

Seconds became minutes, and minutes an hour, but still a destination eluded him. Finally, he gave up, settling for the relative warmth of a run-down pub.

It wasn't particularly clean and the patrons were an amalgamation of unpleasant things, but there was alcohol behind the bar, a place to sit, and enough quiet to suit his needs.

As he took his seat on a wobbly stool, he could feel a few pairs of eyes on him. He didn't want to encourage anyone, though, so he leaned his elbows on the counter and stared ahead, slouching forward as the bartender, a slim Irishman in his fifties, meandered over.

"What can I get you?"

"Jack and Coke."

"Out of Jack. Jim Beam okay?"

The salesman shrugged.

"It's all water to me these days."

He sighed and raked a hand through his hair, letting his head droop down, vaguely aware of the scent of sex as a woman and a man departed a restroom behind him. When the bartender brought him his beverage, he drank it all at once.

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Jim still looked forward to Fridays. There wasn't much waiting for him on the weekends, but it was better than fastening that black tie noose at seven every morning. Maybe tonight, he'd even bring a girl home with him. Or maybe tonight, he'd stop pretending there was a road out of this malaise that didn't pass through Scranton.

He decided it wasn't worth going out. Philosophers didn't spend any wisdom on bathroom graffiti and free drinks for his female suitors were eating at the edges of his paychecks. Instead, he sat on his couch and mocked a Christopher Lambert movie, imagining Pam was sitting beside him and laughing at his commentary, her eyes adoring and indulgent.

At about ten, totally sober for the first Friday he could remember, Jim answered the phone.

"Hello?"

The caller's voice was poorly disguised and punctuated by muffled laughter.

"Jim, this is your mother and I'm old."

"Hey Mom," the salesman said, a small smile forming. "You don't sound so good."

"I have the Evian Bird Flu."

"Evian's a brand of mineral water."

"No, it's not."

"It's bottled in the French Alps."

The voice paused, then went up another octave.

"This is Pam Beesley."

Jim's smile didn't keep.

"Wha'do you want, Michael?"

There was a pause, then a frustrated breath.

"Damn. What gave me away?"

"Switching identities generally indicates that something's amiss."

"I had you at first, though, right?"

"Totally."

"You are so gullible, Halpert."

"It's a failing I've made peace with," Jim replied dryly, shutting his eyes as an ache emerged in his skull. He surprised himself immensely when he spoke again. "It's, uh, good to hear from you. How's everything?"

"Same as ever. Stanley was looking especially black today, though."

Jim paused.

"Yeah, I'm not sure what to do with that, Michael."

His former boss ignored him.

"The big talk around the water cooler, though, is how _great_ my sex life is."

"They're talking about that around the water cooler?"

"Well... _I_ talk about it, but there's other people standing there usually, and Ryan kind of nods like, 'Yes, that sounds like a really good situation for her.'"

Jim coughed, desperate to change the subject.

"Yeah, so how's Carole?"

Michael didn't miss a beat.

"Oh, she's doing great."

"Good, that's good."

"Yeah, she's getting the Michael Scott treatment."

"At the risk of taking on a burden I'm not prepared for: what's the Michael Scott treatment?"

"You know, a little candlelight dinner, a deep tissue massage, put on 'Secret Garden,' and then we feast on the ether of our passion."

"Okay, that metaphor doesn't make any sense."

Michael ignored him again.

"That's actually what I was calling about."

"The ether of your passion?"

"No, I need you to drive down here tomorrow."

Jim let out a tired laugh.

"That's extremely unlikely."

"Jim."

"No."

"Jim, I need you."

"No."

"I'm proposing to Carole tomorrow."

Jim reclined on his couch, his brain grinding against the surrounding bone. His effortless voice labored over his reply.

"Michael, I'm glad... really. But what do you need me for?"

"Well, I'm going to do it at dinner tomorrow night and then I'm gonna have friends and family come out in this big surprise moment."

"That's... actually really nice of you. But I don't know her at all."

Michael's words were blunt, but sentimental.

"Yeah, but come on, my best friend has to be there."

Jim's brows lifted in surprise. At first, it seemed comical and worthy of his pity, the notion that he was Michael's best friend. Then he thought about the way things were, about the way he spent his Mondays and his Fridays. Maybe he and Michael weren't as different as they used to be.

He pondered a moment and he tried to find inside himself the strength to turn away, but it just wasn't there and truth be told it never had been.. Michael really loved with this woman, and Jim was a sucker for miracles.

"All right," the salesman said wearily. "When do you need me to be there?"

"Our reservations are for five."

"Five?"

He could hear Michael's shrug.

"It's, uh, cheaper... early bird special."

Jim's reply was distant.

"Okay."

Neither of them said anything for a while, but the silence wasn't as awkward as Jim might have predicted. There was comfort in knowing there was a voice ready to make a sound, even if it never actually did.

After about a minute, Michael spoke again, quietly now.

"Everything all right with you, Jimbo?"

Jim's voice was dolorous and drowsy, his words slurred with fatigue as they sprang from the chasm between sleep and awake, where the truth shot through the dark every so often like that rare winter sun.

"Yeah... yeah... she's a fuckin' angel," he mumbled, and then his breathing evened out.

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A/N: I was blown away by the very kind reviews, so many thanks for that. They were inspiring. I'm sorry if this chapter and the remainder of the story can't live up to all of that and what was established at the beginning. While this will still be a Pam/Jim story on the whole (and their interaction is imminent), I was happy to see the positive response for the Jim/Michael friendship and will probably give that a little bit bigger role than I'd previously planned because I enjoy writing it and it went over well. Anyway, hope you all enjoyed this, and as always, I appreciate your feedback very much. Comments, critiques, suggestions, requests, etc. are all very welcome. Much obliged!


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